


Now You See Me

by Spyre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancelock, IT COULD HAPPEN, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock is sexual AF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-17 16:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9333989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spyre/pseuds/Spyre
Summary: Sherlock's been going out a lot at night for almost two months now. Sherlock has a secret, and it's all for John. (Comes with a video that should be watched for added impact.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> I really encourage readers to watch the dance (alone if you can swing it)… [The Dance: Do you see me now?](https://youtu.be/ZCfxHe5Tfx0)
> 
> Watch it fully, and wonder who it is in the context of Johnlock-verse… Should be obvious by the build, grace and dance allusion in TSoT. The second song in the performance is I Love You by Woodkid. 100% Johnlock. You can watch the YouTube video after you read the intro or before. I have incorporated links in both places. Hope you enjoy!! Thanks for your readership. For reals, yo.

[Do you see me?](https://youtu.be/ZCfxHe5Tfx0)

******

John had been unsettled by his flatmate’s random, nocturnal disappearances. He became concerned by it, the frequency of it and the refusal of Sherlock to supply a satisfactory explanation. It had been going on for almost two months now, even alongside cases.

So, here he stood in a swamp of chattering, giggling people who were filing into a large auditorium. It was an “extravaganza”, whatever that meant. It looked to involve dancers and musicians. The crowd seemed rather hippy-dippy in John’s opinion.

Only a case would bring Sherlock here, John told himself. As fond as Sherlock was of certain live music and theater, John just could not reconcile Sherlock’s personal interest in a staged review of scantily clad, multi-cultural performers.

Once inside, ticket in hand, John found himself propelled through the throng to a riser that looked out onto the darkened, empty stage. He was just another shadow in the hundreds of people gathered. He felt awkward and out of place, and a little like he needed a drink. He cleared his throat when the crowd pressed close.

The quasi-lit audience section flashed with blue light three times before going absolutely black. Only the exit signs could be seen.

Within moments, the show began. Where could Sherlock be in this enormous place, and what had brought him here? John’s attention narrowed down to the stage. The dancer was male, lit from above, in stark relief, mostly in darkness.

The light accentuated the fine muscle definition in the man’s shoulders and arms. The eerie, highly controlled fluidity of a dancer’s self-possession was odd… and absolutely captivating to John’s untrained eye. When the dancer turned, and John saw the mask… He got a funny feeling in his gut, but couldn’t identify it.

He just watched, mesmerized. It made him uncomfortable, too, in some way. A bloke moving like that, with such weird grace… but he couldn’t look away.

And it took John too long to realize what… exactly… he was seeing. His feet became unsteady as his world collapsed at the edges. Sherlock.

The dancer’s performance, and the sudden epiphany of his identity, left him slack-jawed, eyes wide and his head spinning. He… just… could not believe it, but he knew… _he knew_.

There was no doubt about it. Sherlock was the masked dancer: lithe, long and perfect. Bewitching. Shocking. John all but ran out of the theater to the sounds of hundreds of people cheering, in awe of his flatmate’s body… and the spectacle of it. Holy hell.

******

[Do you see me now?](https://youtu.be/ZCfxHe5Tfx0)

******

John did not hide from Sherlock as he had initially wanted to do. Sherlock would have deduced the truth in short order. John’s bearing just would not be good enough to disguise the inner surge of curiosity and astonishment. He now waited in the common area of the flat, having heard the front door open and close. Too late to be anyone but Sherlock.

Sherlock climbed the stairs and came to stand in the doorway at the top of the landing, ethereal eyes settling on John who was sitting on the coffee table. Sherlock’s dark hair was damp, slicked back out of his face. He had a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. It had been too warm a night for the Belstaff.

John’s mind’s eye was unhelpfully superimposing his memories of the dance over the watchful visage of his flatmate who stood some feet away from him. John was seeing a vast, writhing expanse of exposed alabaster skin, a long, sensuous fluidity and power just under the modest clothes Sherlock now wore.

In a quiet span of mere seconds, with their gazes latched together, they came to a strange understanding.

“You knew I was there,” John stated flatly.

“No,” Sherlock corrected instantly, his voice low and honest, “I just always…” – a single, heavy breath held tightly in his chest, but only for a moment before it rushed out in something like surrender. He tilted his chin up very slightly, having come to a bold decision of words, “I dance as if you are watching.”

They shared a thick silence. When Sherlock spoke next, it was an emotionally affected timbre colored with some amusement, “I knew you would follow me eventually.”

John stood suddenly at that. He could not sit still. He had a need to move. He turned his back on Sherlock, approaching the tall, darkened window and looked out at the street.

“You were marvelous, really,” John said congenially, clearing his throat.

“You think so?” Sherlock asked with guarded tension. He let the strap of the bag slide from his shoulder, settling the burden on the floor beside him. He watched John closely, stepping further into the room.

John huffed, crossed his arms as he half-turned to Sherlock with an incredulous look on his expressive face, “Of course you were.”

Sherlock tucked his chin down, nearly bowed his head at John’s compliment. He pushed his hands into his pockets as he graciously muttered, “Thank you.”

“I couldn’t believe my eyes,” John turned fully to him then, arms still folded tightly to his chest. John smiled in wonder despite himself, “Didn’t know humans could move like that.” 

Sherlock peeked up through his lashes, hearing the warmth in John’s voice. He met the doctor’s navy blue eyes, glittering with affection.

Sherlock had seen that affection before, but within the breadth of a moment, he felt his feet nailed to the spot when his innate observational skills revealed something rather startling. Time stopped, as it had when he first met John Watson. Frozen in time, he was now overcome.

Added to that familiar affection was now a frank, uncomplicated desire: pupils dilated, breathing slightly increased, a bounding pulse at the base of the older man’s neck. The realization sent waves of pleasure through Sherlock, alien and unsettling. He instantly felt the blush under his shirt, felt the warmth rising just before his face burned hot.

John watched Sherlock’s fair skin turn pink, first his neck and then his cheeks. John found that he loved the sight. It was intoxicating. It made him nearly lose his composure. He had dropped his arms down to his sides without knowing it.

Sherlock shrugged, raised his chin back from his chest as if to deny the jittery feeling blossoming in his gut. He turned partially away from John to hide his reaction. He stared at the empty hearth, “It all comes down to muscle control, really. Of course, technique, discipline, and spatial awareness play a big role in execution. But, really, I just love it.”

He said this last bit, sensing John close the distance between them. He pivoted artfully to face his best friend and to move away, pulling his hands out of his pockets. He made the maneuver appear casual, fluid, but John noticed his discomfort through it.

John knew Sherlock well, and this new development… the dance… seemed to slot the last piece of the Sherlock puzzle into place. For once, John knew precisely what he wanted and that he could possibly, actually get it.

Remembered images of the dance he had witnessed emboldened him. The surreal experience now informed his choice to go forward with an experiment of his own. Sherlock had basically said that he had performed the dance for him, for John. John’s utter disbelief and shock was rapidly being replaced with a heady awareness of Sherlock’s elusive sexuality being directed at him. Of all people, Sherlock had chosen John. Wonder of wonders!

John understood, fully. Sherlock had danced because he could not otherwise communicate any of this. Sherlock had presented himself for John’s benefit, had exposed his request the only way he knew how. It was a simple request: _can you see me this way, John?_

John came to stand within Sherlock’s personal space, head cocked slightly to the side. He looked up from Sherlock’s exposed clavicle, up the naked throat where John saw Sherlock swallow hard, those full, pink lips, and then the dazzling silver green of Sherlock’s wary eyes.

John stepped forward to close the distance between them. Sherlock unexpectedly took one step backwards, wordless. Sherlock’s nostrils flared, eyes widening minutely. It should have raised alarm bells for John, but he found Sherlock’s reticence only provoked his desire. He advanced on the taller man until Sherlock’s back was to the wall and they were toe to toe.

“What… are you doing, John?” his words came out sounding absurdly breathless. This lack of vocal control aggravated Sherlock. That, coupled with the line of heat radiating off of John in their close proximity, made Sherlock’s blush deepen.

John’s eyes darkened, “You were more than just brilliant. Sherlock, you were the most beautiful… sexual… thing I have ever seen.”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped at that, and he blinked.

John’s gaze moved back and forth between Sherlock’s mouth and surprised eyes.

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath, and froze. The sound of his own heartbeat had him dizzy and catatonic.

John recognized the stiff silence and a corner of his mouth bent upward, “I won’t kiss you if you don’t want me to.”

Sherlock made a brief, acknowledging sound in his throat. He still did not move. A tense, protracted silence passed between them as the universe contracted and dilated about the two… friends.

What was happening?! John seemed content to wait, the line of heat building between them. Sherlock felt he was sweating beneath his clothes even as a shiver travelled through him.

Sherlock tried to speak, failed, tried again, “No, it’s… fine. It’s… good.”

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to hqtwoface! She is the one responsible for the title of this fic. :)


End file.
